


Four Letter Word

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than two weeks after Sherlock jumps from Bart's, John finds something of Greg's. When Greg comes to pick it up, the two of them drink and reminisce, finding comfort in each other's company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks ever so much to the Writer's Circle and golovelyrose for all their help in poking this long forgotten one shot into shape.

Greg stretched as he stood from his desk causing his neck to give a loud crack. He was bloody tired of the paperwork. The silence outside of his office was telling, causing him to glance up at the clock. _Bloody hell_ , when had it got to be past ten?

His phone chirped at him and he snapped it off his waist to look.

_Come by Baker Street sometime? I’ve found a shoebox full of badges. JW_

Greg’s chest grew tight. His fingers moved over the buttons of his phone. 

_Be there as soon as possible if you’re up for it. Just leaving the Yard. GL_

He laughed a bit as he put his initials on the text. Sherlock had started that mess. _Anyone can type a text Lestrade, if I put my initials there you’ll know it’s not someone just sending it while I’m unconscious._ He hadn’t bothered to point out if someone took the time to look at past messages they’d be able to do the same thing. The common criminal couldn’t possibly be that smart in Sherlock’s eyes.

_I could use the company. JW_

Greg stopped long enough on his way to pick up John’s favorite beer. Maybe they could drink a couple and relax. No one else would talk to him about Sherlock. Molly had taken to avoiding everyone and, well, the rest of them were still gloating.

He was about to ring the buzzer when Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “Oh dear! Greg, you frightened me. Off to hospital, the neighbor a few doors down had a fall. Come to see John?” Greg smiled and nodded. She looked relieved. “Good, make sure he eats something. He’s barely left the flat.”

Greg promised he would before he flagged down a cab for Mrs. Hudson. He sent her on her way and jogged up the stairs. He knocked on Sherlock and… a heavy sigh escaped him at the thought that it was no longer _Sherlock and John_ , but just John.

\---

John pushed away from the kitchen table at the sound of someone knocking. The kitchen was full of half-packed boxes and reams of brown packing paper, as well as half the sitting room. He’d not addressed anything in there yet. Sherlock’s violin was exactly where he’d left it, just as his skull and knifed stack of letters. 

He dragged a hand over his face, frowning at the thin layer of stubble. He’d forgotten to shave this morning. When was the last time he’d managed to forget his decades-long habit? 

He pulled the door open, giving Greg a small smile that decidedly did not reach his tired eyes, speaking warmly. “Greg,” as he stepped aside to let him in, “Thanks for coming by. I’ve no idea what to do with any of this, thought it would be nice to square away at least one bloody box this week.” 

Greg stepped inside and put a hand on John’s shoulder, “He was a worse packrat than I thought. Take a break?” He held up the six pack. “Do you know I had to pay for them after the fourth? They told me since I kept letting him do it, I had to pay for them.” There was a chuckle behind it. “Prat.”

He moved past John and looked around. It was off, wrong, without Sherlock. When he looked back to John his smile was sad.

John slipped a hand into his pocket and watched Greg as he looked about, shutting the door behind him. He took the beer with a nod and walked back into the kitchen, stepping over stacks of random things he’d made an effort to sort into piles. He tucked the beer into the empty fridge and pulled two out, cracking off the tops with the aid of the counter lip and walking them back out to Greg. “Thanks, mate,” he said gently. 

He nearly sat in his chair, but the thought of anyone else in Sherlock’s nearly took his breath away. Feeling as though he were encroaching, stupid as that was, John settled in Sherlock’s chair. John took an audibly deep breath before swallowing a quarter of the beer in one pull. Greg was always a welcome sight, but it was odd to have anyone in the flat, after ten days of silence. 

“I returned most of the lab equipment back to forensics and Bart’s. Anderson was only happy to let me know how much more clever he’d been than the rest of us.” 

Greg moved to John’s chair and settled in. His words were harsh, “I’ll bust Anderson back to the desk. Wanker.” He angrily pulled at his beer. “Anderson puts me off, always has. Put up with him because the forensic work he does is decent. Theories are shite, but the work he does is good.”

He glared at the bottle in his hand before pulling at it again, hastily putting away about half of it. “So tired of that mess. Sherlock was a great man. A _good_ one.”

_I’m a fake._

John closed his eyes for a moment as he filled his lungs. He’d not been able to shake his voice from his head, random strings of his last conversation working their way through his mind at the most unlikely times, shaking him off his foundation. He opened his eyes again and managed more of the beer, honestly glad Greg had brought it over. 

“That he was,” he agreed, his thumb sliding along the armrest of Sherlock’s chair, an interruption in the smooth leather calling his attention. A single dark curl had gone unseen, trapped under the pad of his finger, dropping weights onto his chest. He picked it up and held it to the light, staring for a moment. 

“I keep expecting him to stroll out of his room and shout me down for upsetting his things.” His voice was steady, if not a bit weak, returning the curl to where he’d found it. Had Greg not been there for the discovery, John doubted he would ever move again. 

Greg took another drink of his beer before eyeing the bottle. He shook his head and stood, moving to the fridge and pulling two more out. He drained the one he had and binned it before cracking the other two. Greg settled one beside John before retreating back to the chair.

“I check my mobile constantly. Every time I get stuck I pick it up.”

He sipped at the beer absently, enjoying the slide of alcohol in his veins. He’d barely eaten for days, running on too little sleep. Greg was more than happy to sink into even a modicum of warmth. 

John arched a brow at Greg’s speed with the beers, and decided to just damn well keep up with him. Why not? There was nothing on tomorrow. He took a moment to kill the first, setting the bottle aside and picking up the second, thumbnail scratching at the label wrapped around the neck. He let his eyes wander the flat from a perspective he rarely got, preferring his eyes to the windows. 

“I quit my job,” he said absently, finally looking back to Greg. 

Greg looked up surprised, “Really? You did always complain about how boring it was… Not surprising really, running around with that brilliant bastard.” He shook his head, “Sorry.” His eyes dropped down to the bottle in his hand, “Might not have brought enough.”

He had not set out to get pissed, but with each passing second it seemed like a better idea. Greg took another long drink from the beer and peered across at John. “How are you? Really I mean.”

John huffed a silent, empty laugh, the corner of his lip quirking up as he looked down at the bottle in his lap, peeling at the label with his thumb. “I suppose as well as can be expected.” He sat there for a moment, his mind running through treacle, hardly able to pull several thoughts at once. He’d not really given any attention to how he was. “Things needed doing, I’ve been doing them.” 

He looked up at Greg, words desperate on his tongue. He’d not been able to vocalize to Mycroft, hardly understanding how he felt about that man. Greg, however, Greg could handle it, surely. 

“I keep thinking about what I should have said to him. I could have talked him down, I know I could have. I just didn’t find the right words fast enough.”

Greg shook his head and went to his knees in front of John, not caring. He put his hands on John’s knees. “Hey, no. No. You cannot think like that. I’ve… John I’ve worked too many cases. You can’t. He made up his mind. Some people.” He made a sound of frustration. “They can’t be saved. He burned so brightly.” 

There was a small shake of his head. “He was bloody beautiful and brilliant and good. He gave so much of himself. I think he burnt himself out… You cannot think like that. You just can’t John, you _can’t_. It will eat you from the inside out. I know. I know it’s painful and you feel like you should have done something… It wasn’t your choice. You didn’t control him. Sherlock was his own man.”

John put his elbow up on the armrest and turned his head to the mantle as Greg spoke, his palm against his mouth as he focused on the steady flow of his breathing against his fingers. It sounded as though Greg were speaking to him from another room and John had to struggle to understand him. His jaw worked as he tried to concentrate on what Greg was saying. When Greg stopped talking, John closed his stinging eyes and sat there, silent, trying like hell not to recap the entire horrific conversation for the millionth time. 

Eventually he nodded, still keeping his eyes turned away, certain that were he to look at Greg just then he’d completely fall apart. Finally he dropped his hand away from his mouth, replacing it with the lip of the bottle and drinking until it was empty, savoring the way it was already humming warm in his arms. 

“Christ, Greg,” he whispered, his voice cracking despite all his efforts, “I had nothing before him. Nothing. I am trying desperately to not be so maudlin, but I cannot- I put all my eggs in one basket, and it cracked apart on the sidewalk at Bart’s. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” 

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. He snagged his bottle and killed it, trying to put something, anything into words. “You’ve still got me. We’ll drag Molly and Mycroft along kicking and screaming if we have to.” He stared down at the bottle, not getting to his feet yet, still on the floor in front of John.

“You keep moving, keep doing. You let me call you when I have a case. You come stand with me. We keep going. You find a job that will excite you. You just keep moving. Don’t stand still.” 

John cracked a smile and shook his head, “Can’t help you on cases, mate, nothing to offer. I’ve put in for work, yeah. Not getting a good reception with my newfound fame, I can tell you that much. Keeps on this way, I’m going to have to leave London.” 

He finally turned back to face Greg, watching him for a moment. He wasn’t going to tell him that he had exactly zero interest in keeping moving. As far as John was concerned, he could damn well sit in the flat until he mercifully starved to death. Mrs. Hudson was adamant that he not, or he may have done already. 

“All the people he helped, and the one and only bit of mail that’s come this way was a card from a little fellow in the boy’s home Sherlock was supporting. Did you know he was doing that? Funneled the smallest of his Network there, kept an eye on their cases. Dull work, by his standards. But he wanted me to be sure and tell you that he was a bloody fake.”

Greg pushed himself to his feet at that. He stalked back across to the fridge. “Definitely did not bring enough.” He cracked them both and handed John one. “Oh, he was a fake alright. A bloody fake pretending he didn’t care about anything.”

He stood there, lost as he gazed around the flat. “You can’t leave London.” There was a hint of desperation to the words as he suddenly looked back to John.

John stood up and walked into the kitchen. He pulled open a cabinet, and returned to the sitting room with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses more suited for orange juice than liquor. “Sherlock broke the tumblers,” he said softly as he set them down on the table beside John’s chair, going back to Sherlock’s with a glass of his own. 

“I have no desire to leave London, believe me. Looked forward to coming home for years. Not really something I can control, much like everything else. He told me he _researched me_ before he met me. Can you believe that? I’ve- _why_ would he say that? I can’t stand it, this not knowing. He was fine, Greg, fine. Bloody well loved himself. I can’t understand. I thought-” he shook himself and bit off the words, tucking into the whiskey, not at all keen to let himself run his mouth so much. 

Greg sat down heavily in John’s chair again, reaching for the whiskey. “I don’t know. He. Christ, John. Who knew what went on in that head of his? I don’t believe for a minute Moriarty wasn’t real. That twisted sonofabitch did something to him.” He gazed at the whiskey before drinking about half of it. 

He pressed his hand over his eyes. “I keep expecting him to text, bored out of his mind, telling me how vexed you’ll be if he shoots the wall again and that it will be entirely my fault.”

John smiled at that, just before he went back to his drink. He was fucking tired of feeling...fucking tired of _feeling_. He swallowed the whiskey down like water, grimacing, setting it down and pushing himself to his feet. It had to be done, and perhaps with Greg here to distract him he could manage it. 

He walked over to the window where Sherlock often played, and took a moment to let his eyes rest on the spread there, mentally capturing the details for later, should he want them. His finger trailed along the base of the stand before he gave a tight nod and took a steadying breath, moving to Sherlock’s scattered side of the desk. He reached fast, but his hand paused just over the neck of the instrument, fingers flexing as his heart seized up. He exhaled slowly and curled his fingers around the stings, lifting it, turning swiftly to tuck it into the case. 

He picked up the bow next, trailing his pointer along the well-worn wood where Sherlock would grip in with steady pressure despite his mood. His breathing caught as he twisted the knob at the end, relaxing the hairs as he’d seen Sherlock do before tucking it away. His vision blurred as he added the bow inside the blue lined case. His hands rested over the open lid, blinking down at it. He should have done this in private. This felt more like putting Sherlock in the ground than the funeral. 

He wasn’t aware of the tear that got away from him, readying himself as he mentally played him out, Sherlock’s last number singing through his mind as he finally closed the hard lid and latched it. 

He took a step back with a shuddering breath and stared at the cold case, dragging a hand over his face and shaking his head. “I fucking hate this.”

Greg had watched, killing the rest of the whiskey as he did. He moved to his feet again, crossing the room. Greg just pulled John against him and hugged him. That had hurt worse than anything he’d dealt with so far. He took in a deep breath as they stood there.

There was nothing to say besides, “I know, I do too.” Greg did not release John. He closed his eyes. It was too much, John didn’t need to do this on his own. “Look, I’ll start coming by, you need help. I’m not going to let you do this alone. Fuck whatever anyone thinks.”

John leaned hard into Greg, turning his face to his chest, frankly not giving a damn. He’d held it together through all of it, and now, worn down for want of food and rest, laced with alcohol, Sherlock’s violin silenced, he could no longer manage it. 

He was quiet nearly a full minute before the pressure snapped and his shoulders pinched on a single, broken sob. He wrapped his arms around Greg’s back, fingers fisting in the material of Greg’s shirt at his shoulderblades. God it hurt. 

Greg pulled John tighter against him out of instinct. He couldn’t stand for people to hurt. His head tucked against John’s as he murmured soft sounds of comfort. It felt like his own heart was cracking as he held John. “I’ve got you.”

He rubbed his hand over John’s back tenderly. Greg sought to comfort and soothe John. His own chest was tight as he held him. This was going to break them both if they weren’t careful. His words were soft, a reiteration. “I’ve got you.”

Slow minutes dragged by while John struggled desperately to get a handle on himself. Greg was solid and warm where John felt like he’d never shake the clinging cold. He took a deep breath, savoring the darkness of where he was tucked against Greg, before finally drawing back. 

He dropped a hand down to the top of the case, smiling sadly. “You were right, you know? All you lot were. I hit on him at the very beginning and he turned me down swiftly. Spent the rest of the time trying to save face. Prat.”

Greg suddenly laughed, “Christ, John…” He scruffed the back of his own neck. “Turned me down too. Last time he got out of rehab. I was separated, again.” Greg looked over at the skull as he spoke. “Dunno what possessed me to ask him to dinner, but I did. No expectations just. He was bloody beautiful you know? And smart.” 

He cleared his throat, “Anyhow… yeah. He turned me down. When I saw him with you though. Christ. He’d never been so taken with anyone.”

Greg looked back to John, a bit embarrassed, “Sorry.” He shrugged and looked down at his feet, as he thought about Sherlock. His hand rested on John’s shoulder. “You were good for him.”

He withdrew and moved to the sofa after pouring himself another whiskey. Greg settled down staring into the glass, he suddenly killed it and set it on the coffee table. He was decidedly well on his way to getting pissed. The alcohol hummed through his veins and he stared at the empty glass.

_Not good enough._

John followed Greg, already drunk himself. He bypassed the liquor and settled down on the sofa at his side. “Had no idea you were bi,” he murmured with a lopsided grin, dragging a hand over his still-tearing eyes. 

He leaned his shoulder against Greg’s without thinking, edging closer, utterly starving for camaraderie at the least. The weight of _alone_ had nearly sunk him down and under... resulting in picking up his Browning more than once. 

“What a bloody mess. It’s all his. I can’t stand to look at it all, and I can’t stand the idea of it being gone. It will be so empty. Mycroft told me that Sherlock had an account squirreled away, his family’s money he did not want any part of. Mycroft signed it over to me, as executor, so I can at least afford to stay here.” John took a deep breath before sighing as he looked around.

His voice wavered in pitch and quality and he shook his head before slouching and resting it on Greg’s shoulder, letting his eyes fall closed. “I know this has to get better. Logically, I know this.”

Greg wrapped his arm around John and pulled him snug up against him, “It will. It’s going to be bloody awful till then though.”

“Yeah, it’s not really anything I talk about. Doesn’t really come up often.” A small smirk crossed his face, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth over John’s shoulder.

“Glad you can stay… Put it in storage until you can decide. Go through it then, keep what you want, donate the rest to charity.”

The way John turned against Greg’s chest was entirely natural, as was his fingers twining in the material over Greg’s heart. He could not capture back the sound of relieved distress that mixed off his tongue. Christ he was in pain. He breathed deep, finding with a bit of surprise that Greg’s scent was already familiar and wildly comforting. 

“Thank you for being here, I really meant to give you the badges, but damn, now that you’re here…” his voice broke down on him and he went quiet. 

Greg tucked his face down against John’s head and wrapped his other arm around him. He was quiet for a few minutes, just holding onto John. His eyes were closed as they sat there. Finally he spoke quietly, “Thanks for having me over, even if it was just for the badges. It’s not been the same.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head without thinking about it. Just wanting to comfort him. His hand stroked John’s back gently.

The next few moments happened in a blur. John registered the kiss pressed to the crown of his head and he all but climbed up Greg’s side without thinking, pulling desperately on his shirt, his vision too blurred to see properly as he wrapped an arm around Greg’s neck and kissed him. His heart raced, stomach dropping out as his mind caught up to his body. He wouldn’t make it if Greg shoved him away and walked out, he wouldn’t. There was no way. What they hell had he done? He stopped moving and went perfectly still, brows knitting as he flinched in anticipation of the fallout. “I- oh god, Greg, I’m sorry.”

Greg blinked up at John. He arched a brow and suddenly fisted a hand in John’s jumper and dragged him back. “The hell are you sorry for?” He kissed John, arm wrapping around the small of his back and pulling John with him to the sofa, nearly settling him in his lap. Greg knew, somewhere, that the alcohol was aiding his boldness but he really did not care. This was John, this was his friend, someone he’d been attracted to on more than one occasion and he just _did not care_. They could have this. Sherlock was gone but they could have this comfort.

John fully settled himself on Greg’s lap, still trying to get closer, sick to death of being in his own skin and greedy for the comfort of another’s. He sank his fingers in Greg’s hair, kissing him like he was drowning, desperate and fast, mixing sounds of relief and pain as he let Greg hold him close; melting against him, surrounded in his home by shadows of a man who’d never return. 

“Please,” he managed, eyes stinging and throat tight, “Greg- p-please,” he managed against his lips, kissing him again. 

Greg slid his hand under John’s jumper at the back, desperate to touch his skin. He kissed him back murmuring against his lips, “I’ve got you. I promise… I’ve got you.” Holding John close, tangling his hand in the hair at the back of John’s head, Greg deepened the kiss, tongue gently teasing at John’s lower lip.

John gasped against him and opened his mouth, meeting Greg, his tongue sliding along the other man’s as he relaxed and viciously shut his mind down, allowing himself to trust Greg’s assurances and relax into him. Greg’s hand against his back was a point of brilliant heat and John was sure he’d never felt anything so wonderful. The reprieve was startling and brilliant, for a moment the vice that had locked around his heart since Sherlock’s feet left the roof loosened and he could breathe properly again. 

Greg rubbed his hand slowly over John’s back as he nipped lightly at his lower lip. He kissed along John’s jaw and down to his neck, licking and nipping gently. His hand in John’s hair dropped to John’s hip and he wrapped it there.

“Christ.” He tucked his head against John and bit lightly just soaking in the warmth and the closeness. John was comforting, close, his smell familiar, someone Greg was around all the time. He nuzzled before moving up and kissing John again.

John had rolled his head to the side as Greg moved down, swearing under his breath and crashing back into the kiss when he returned. He was on autopilot, letting his body do the work. His hips rolled down on instinct as his fingers dropped between then, working at the buttons and trying to hike the material free of Greg’s trousers. 

He grazed his teeth along Greg’s lower lip, his palm sliding along Greg’s chest, under the material of his open shirt. 

Greg pulled back long enough to tug at John’s jumper. He had it up and over John’s head and slung across the room in a series of almost frantic movements. Greg yanked at his own shirt, struggling out of it. He pulled John back against him, hissing as they came together skin to skin.

His head dipped back down and he bit at John’s neck again, tongue teasing the trapped flesh.

“Oh, fuck,” John gasped at the warm heat on his neck, Greg’s skin against his own. He ground his hips down, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, head falling back and hands gripping hard to Greg’s shoulders. He was dizzy with the feel of him, the sharp relief more than he could have asked for. Greg had an amazing body and his hands were perfection, rough in all the right ways. 

Greg’s hands went to John’s hips, using them as leverage to grind up against John. “Fuck, yes.” His lips found John’s again; kissing him almost harshly, needing it, needing the closeness. He rocked up against John rhythmically as he kissed him, grip just shy of painful as he bit at John’s lower lip.

“Bed, oh god please,” John gasped after tearing away from the kiss. He kept the motion of his hips, tipping his forehead to Greg’s, breathing too fast and harsh despite himself. The flat of his hand slid down Greg’s chest, drinking in the feel of him, harsh sounds of want and pleasure falling from his lips. 

Greg struggled to let him go. He finally croaked out, “Yes, god… go. Come on.” He groaned at John’s rocking. “Christ, John before I have you on the sofa.” Greg rocked up hard against John, a shudder running through him.

John groaned at the tone of Greg’s voice laced over those words. He rocked down once more before pushing off him and grabbing Greg’s hand, pulling him to the stairs. He pushed him up against the wall as the creeping feel of crushing loss worked its way around him, kissing him desperately in a bid to keep the moment. He tore away and moved swiftly up the stairs to the one place in the flat that had nothing at all of Sherlock’s, tearing his trousers off and crawling up onto his bed, licking his lips and watching Greg. 

Greg toed off his shoes and worked the buckle on his belt with a curse before he finally got everything off. He didn’t care, he crawled onto John’s bed naked. Greg crawled to John and kissed him again, his hand running along John’s thigh.

He settled beside John, still kissing him. His leg hooked around John’s as he nipped at John’s lip again.

John pulled hard at him, desperate, trying to pull Greg over him as his hands went everywhere. He reached up and tangled his fingers in Greg’s hair, pulling him into a deep kiss as his other slid down his surprisingly solid flank, dipping into the ‘V’ of his thigh, nearly touching him. 

Greg moved over John, his knees settling between John’s thighs as he groaned at John’s touch.. He kissed him hard as his hands ran over John’s chest, sliding down across his stomach. Greedy now, his hands dropped, sliding to John’s thighs, teasingly dragging close to wrapping around his cock, but veering away at the last second. Instead his fingers curled around John’s hips.

John all but shouted, arching up and abruptly grabbing him, wrapping his fingers around Greg’s cock. He rolled his hips, dragging a leg behind Greg’s thigh, trying to pull him closer. “Damn it, Greg,” he huffed fondly. 

He dropped his hand away from Greg’s hair to rake his nails down his back, harsh and rough, nearly out of his head as he sought more. 

Greg let out a growl, “Fuck, John. Damn it.” He braced a hand next to John’s head and ground his hips down against him. His hand curled around John’s cock and he sucked in a breath at the feel of John in his hand. “Christ.” Greg gave a long stroke before squeezing lightly and arched into the rake of nails down his back leaning to bite along John’s neck.

John dropped his head to the side, gritting his teeth at the feel of Greg’s hand around him. He took up a slow pace on Greg’s cock as he rolled his hips up again, dropping his leg to the side, trying to invite him closer. “Jesus,” he whispered, his hand picking up speed as his patience waned and he grew more eager. 

Greg pressed down more fully against John, rocking his hips against him. He trailed nips and bites along John’s neck, “Fuck, yes.” He latched on to the top of John’s shoulder with his teeth and sucked, intent on bringing up a bruise. His hand stroked along John faster. He wanted everything.

John bucked up against him, groaning loud and open as Greg became rougher. He met Greg’s pace and and pulled him down closer, hands scrambling and sounds far more desperate. “Greg, Christ,” he panted, fisting his fingers in Greg’s hair, his heart racing, pulling on him in his effort to get more. 

Greg growled at the hand in his hair, “Christ, I want you.” He kissed John hard, letting him go and rocking his hips against him. His tongue parted John’s lips and explored his mouth slowly. Nails raked up John’s side, digging in a bit as he went.

John pressed into the nails at his side, breathing harshly in his urgency, yielding to Greg and parting his lips for him. He let go of his hold on Greg’s cock, rolling his hips before sinking both his hands into Greg’s hair and arching his spine trying to encourage him, sounds of pleasure falling from his lips into Greg’s mouth. This was the only thing he wanted in the world at the moment. Greg was his friend, Greg was safe, Greg was strong. He could hide here for a little while, shelter in his arms, put away the thoughts that tore across his soul and cracked at the casing of his heart. “Please, Greg, pl-please,” he whispered in a rush, wrapping as close as he could get, moving in time with the body above him. 

Greg nipped at John’s lip and muttered, “Fuck, John.” He wanted John coming apart underneath him. Wanted to hear him lose control. He pressed close, covering John with himself in a bid to protect him from the outside world for the moment. Greg kissed John’s jaw. He spotted the oil on the bedside table and snagged it. 

He kissed John again before kneeling between his legs. Greg drizzled oil over his hand and a good amount against John. His fingers rubbed gently against him, watching John’s face. 

John was panting as he tossed an arm over his eyes, rolling up against Greg’s fingers, a near-whimper at the back of his throat. His free hand dropped and wrapped around Greg’s thigh, the tremor there lessened as he pressed against Greg’s heated flesh, infinitely grateful for him. 

He dropped his arm away for a moment and looked up at him, swallowing and dropping his mouth slightly open. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and groaned, rolling down once again. 

Greg took the invitation, letting out a hiss as he pressed his finger in. He kept his eyes on John, his free hand wrapping around John’s hip. 

“Christ, yes.” John was fucking beautiful like this, sprawled beneath him, so trusting. Greg’s jaw worked for a moment as he fought to keep control of himself and not just move to send John screaming over the edge so he could watch him come apart.

John bit out a sound of rough pleasure as Greg slipped a finger into him. His hand moved and he captured Greg’s, lacing their fingers together as he forced himself to hold still, letting his body adjust. He’d not been topped for years. He tugged gently at Greg’s hand, panting and watching him for a moment before letting his head fall to the side, staring at some point across the room, his grip on Greg’s fingers desperately tight. 

He took a few long, deep breaths before he lost control of himself and pressed his hips down with a whimper, closing his eyes. 

Greg went slowly, intent on pleasure. He rocked his finger in John for a bit before adding the second. He curled them slightly, moving to please him. His other hand squeezed John’s. “I’ve got you.” His words were reassuring. Greg worked at John, wanting to draw more sounds from him.

John swore softly and turned his head back to look at Greg, moving for him now. He licked his lips and groaned at the feel of the fingers inside him, blotting out thoughts of anything else. He curled his toes in the bedding and tipped his head back as warmth spread along him, warm and perfect, more than inviting. “Fuck, Greg, Christ,” he stuttered as he pressed down with more urgency. 

Greg groaned as he finally added a third finger. His hand rocked against John a bit harder. God he wanted him. He stretched John, fingers moving as he did. “Fuck, yes.” He watched John move and listened to the positively sinful sounds he was making before finally withdrawing his hand. 

“Condoms?” 

John swore, jerked out of his pleased haze. “I- tested regularly… the job. I mean- Haven’t been out in a while and-”

Greg cut him off with a slow, sensual kiss. “Same. I’m clean.”

John let out a relieved whimper. “Just you, just want you.”

Greg took up the oil again and slicked himself. Holding himself with one hand, and still grasping John’s hand with the other, Greg watched John’s face as he slowly started to press in.

John held his breath, rolling his hips up for Greg, curling his back down a bit to assist with the angle. He clung to Greg’s hand, pressing forward to match the pressure. The heat of Greg’s skin sliding slowly into him eased some of the desperate ache in his chest and he exhaled sharply, wanting this more than anything. He swore and tipped his head back, whispering encouragement without articulating himself, trying to pull Greg in closer, deeper, greedy for him. 

With a soft curse, Greg obliged. He rocked into John just shy of painfully until he was pressed against him. He dropped down kissing John roughly, one hand beside his head. Greg needed this. Needed John like this. He rocked his hips, rolling as he kissed him demandingly.

John’s focus snapped hard to Greg’s demanding, harsher movements, groaning into his mouth, yielding to him, meeting him movement for movement with the kiss as his body burned wonderfully, pressing into him the suggestion of pain far easier to handle than anything he’d been soaking in the last eternal days. 

His throat was tight as he moved for Greg, sharply attuned to what he was seeking, the way he was moving. John found reason here, it all made sense, was all easy to follow as he arched into it, solace in the act. 

Greg moaned as he moved in John. He nuzzled down to his neck and bit along until he found his shoulder, sinking teeth against John’s skin. He sucked and licked as he bit, drawing up another mark at the top of John’s shoulder. Greg’s movements were steady, not quite rough yet. He gave a groan, wanting more, wanting to watch John shatter so he could pick up the pieces after.

He pushed up to his knees and wrapped one hand on John’s hip and the other around his cock, picking up the pace as he gazed down at John.

John twisted under him, eyes wide and pupils blown, gasping as Greg’s fingers wrapped around him. He swore loudly, “Fucking- Greg, Jesus, yes,” putting pressure against Greg’s hand on his hip, caught between rocking down onto Greg’s cock and the hand around his own. “Oh, god, please just- fuck, Greg just-” his breathing robbed him of his words, the act of respiring demanding too much effort for words. He tipped his head back and fisted his hands in the blankets under his back, struggling for more. 

At John’s pleading, Greg’s control snapped . He started fucking him in earnest, moaning and near growling as he did. French curses twined with English as he encouraged John. Greg’s hand stroking him in time with the drive of his hips, rocking John’s bed harshly against the wall.

John was gone, face turned to the side as his hand shoved under the pillow behind his head, pressing the corner of it up so that he could bury half of his face against it. He moved with Greg, his focus sharp to the feel of Greg within him - _not alone_ \- and the astounding sounds he was making as he fucked into John. French dripping from his tongue unexpected and working around John’s nerve endings, pressing him mentally down in the best ways. 

He turned his face back to Greg above him, one arm wrapping around his back, sinking his free hand into Greg’s hair. John pulled him down so that they were chest to chest; the full body friction pressed out the last of the bone-deep chill. He gasped and let loose, not holding back as he vocalized for Greg, each clipped sound of pleasure sliding between them as he met each thrust, gladly accepting. 

Greg moved against John, settled finally. The closeness was what he’d needed. It drove away all the guilt, the pain. He moaned low against John’s shoulder, “Christ, John.” He was so close already, every sound John made driving him that much further. His hand squeezed, moving against John as best he could between them.

John swore and tightened his fingers in Greg’s hair, pulling him down closer, desperately kissing him as he rolled down hard, nearly jarring himself in his efforts, pressure building in a tight coil. He crashed their lips together as his heart raced, Greg’s hand on him pulling him right up to the edge. 

He came hard, shouting into Greg’s mouth, tearing his lips away in the next moment as he panted on a blissfully pained breath, exhaling loudly as he rocked into Greg’s hand, the fingers at Greg’s back biting into the skin as he swore, groaning as he began to come down, watching Greg again in an effort to watch him break apart. 

Greg was pushed violently over the edge by John. His hips snapped hard into John, burying himself in him. John’s name was on his lips as he came, shuddering and panting loudly. He buried his face in the crook of John’s neck. He struggled with his breathing as everything washed over him eyes dropping closed as he nuzzled into John gently.

John wrapped himself around Greg, one arm around Greg’s back, the other hand deep in Greg’s hair, scratching his nails lightly over his scalp at the base of his skull. He wrapped his legs over the back’s of Greg’s, leaning his cheek over Greg’s. He licked his lips as burning pressure at the back of his eyes gave way to the silent escape of gentle tears, breathing deep as he clung to the man above him. He drew in a few deep breaths in quick succession in a bid to keep a handle on himself. He nuzzled his cheek against Greg’s, wanting desperately to keep him there as long as possible, loathing that the moment was over. He kept his eyes closed tight and clung to him. 

Greg gently leaned up and nuzzled John’s cheek. He kissed away the tears. Greg didn’t speak but held close, not wanting to move yet. John was going to have to kick his ass out of the bed to get him out of the flat after that. At least for now all he wanted to do was protect his friend from the bone chilling loneliness he’d obviously been experiencing.

John’s voice broke over Greg’s name as he buried his face in Greg’s shoulder, trying to breathe, the quiet acknowledgement from him nearly taking John apart all over again. It had been wonderful to be with Greg like that, despite the twinge of guilt he felt at feeling anything remotely like joy while in he and Sherlock’s cold flat. He pressed closer, his breathing hitching, shaking his head slowly as he worked to control himself. 

Greg slowly withdrew from John, rolling them to their sides. He pulled him close and kissed him softly. His hand rested on John’s hip as he tilted their foreheads together. “I’ve got you.” His voice was a soft whisper.

John slid his hand along Greg’s cheek, kissing him softly, keeping his eyes closed as he whispered an apology, dropping his leg over Greg’s hip, clinging to him as the moment stretched out and reality threatened at the edges. His other hand moved without his awareness, resting over the steady beat of Greg’s heart, the feel of it nearly taking him down. He blinked his eyes open and eased back enough to look at Greg’s face, mauling the inside of his cheek as he studied him. 

Greg’s hand came up and rested over the top of John’s at his heart and pressed lightly. He didn’t speak, just let his mouth quirk up at the corner like it did when he sought to make someone smile. His thumb traced slow circles on John’s hip. He would not abandon John. Even if this was all he could do, it was something.

John understood then with the gentle smile, that Greg was not planning on getting up and walking out of the flat any time soon. The rush of relief was overwhelming and his voice cracked as he whispered, “Thank you, oh god, thank you,” pressing back in against Greg and tipping his face to the side of Greg’s neck. 

Greg slid his arm around John’s back and held him close. “You’ll have to pry me away from you.” His voice was quiet as he pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder. He rubbed John’s back and hooked the blankets with his foot before dragging them over the both of them.

John shivered hard as Greg wrapped them into the blankets. He was so achingly tired. He shifted more comfortably against him. Greg was, perhaps, the only person on the entire planet who could understand what was happening to John. They both loved Sherlock in their own ways. Greg was not a soldier, but he was an officer which came with the same sorts of threats and traumas. John dropped a hand to Greg’s hip, breathing and slowly relaxing as he realized he would not be staring at his ceiling alone through the night. 

He opened his mouth to speak and felt his throat close on him, choosing to press a soft kiss to Greg’s neck instead, pulling back to settle his head on a pillow, sleep weighing heavy on him. 

A sleepy smile crossed Greg’s face and he kissed John’s shoulder as they snuggled. He tucked them close together, making sure John was secure. His eyes fluttered closed and he made a soft noise of contentment before drifting off to sleep.

Greg’s hand tightened any time John shifted, seeking to keep him safe and secure even in his sleep.


End file.
